Beginning to Say Good-bye
I've thought many times over the last weeks about the privilege of saying good-bye to the man I love. Or more importantly, the opportunity to say, "Go Home. I'll see you soon."
The last weekend of Brian's life compares to none. It was one of glorious beauty and precious grace. Our friends, Ben and Kim, were visiting from New York, and our house permeated of fabulous aromas (Ben is quite the cook) and buzzed of great insight and wisdom (Kim is, well, amazing). On Friday, the nurse came and was a bit alarmed that Brian had lost some weight, even though his TPN (IV nutrition) was pumping many calories into his system. After calls to doctors, she asked if we wanted Brian to go to the hospital. Argh! Hospitals. I looked at him, and I knew what the answer was. We both answered no, as weekends in hospitals are residents and often inept technicians (only from experience). Our thought was Monday.
Ben had cooked all day, and a crowd of friends and family appeared by six that evening. Conversation, food, wine, all that brings comfort filled our evening. Brian sat with us, tired but happy. The next morning Brian worked at gaining strength, and by late morning he was sitting in the living room with everyone. The day seemed "normal". However, later he needed to rest, and I felt it so heavy on my heart that we needed to plan his memorial service. In hindsight, it's much easier to see how God spoke to us. Listening to God is something I don't do very well, unless I slam hard into a wall and cry out for mercy. But as I think over the last months, I marvel at His communication with us. Who am I to have Him spend so much time talking to me? To Brian? Oh, yeah, we're His children.
That afternoon, I sat next to him, holding his hands, and said, "I think we need to stop chemo. Let's work on regaining your strength and live chemo free for however long God has you on this earth." I know neither one of us knew what was going to happen, but we both knew that was the right decision. And then, with a lump in my throat and confidence that was not my own, I said, "And I think we should plan your service. And if we don't need it for 40 years, then so be it." I can still see his sweet eyes looking at me through his glasses, and I know there was great relief.
Again, friends arrived that evening, a bit more somber than the previous night. I found myself in the kitchen with our friend Kelly, who cried with me because she knew. She just knew and she knew the right words to say.
As we all sat around, somewhat dumbfounded that we would be doing this, we began to address the issue of a service. I clumsily introduced what we were going to do and then looked to Brian, who, without hesitation, said "Death is ended." This James Ward song said it all. I'm sure in Brian's imagination, he saw a huge gospel choir of friends, filling the sanctuary. I'm not sure we qualified as huge in number, but we were gigantic in heart. With something so serious and so scary, the evening felt just right. All the right hymns, all the right people, all the right verses. It felt good and pleasing to God.
There is a Sunday and Monday...for the next post.
The last weekend of Brian's life compares to none. It was one of glorious beauty and precious grace. Our friends, Ben and Kim, were visiting from New York, and our house permeated of fabulous aromas (Ben is quite the cook) and buzzed of great insight and wisdom (Kim is, well, amazing). On Friday, the nurse came and was a bit alarmed that Brian had lost some weight, even though his TPN (IV nutrition) was pumping many calories into his system. After calls to doctors, she asked if we wanted Brian to go to the hospital. Argh! Hospitals. I looked at him, and I knew what the answer was. We both answered no, as weekends in hospitals are residents and often inept technicians (only from experience). Our thought was Monday.
Ben had cooked all day, and a crowd of friends and family appeared by six that evening. Conversation, food, wine, all that brings comfort filled our evening. Brian sat with us, tired but happy. The next morning Brian worked at gaining strength, and by late morning he was sitting in the living room with everyone. The day seemed "normal". However, later he needed to rest, and I felt it so heavy on my heart that we needed to plan his memorial service. In hindsight, it's much easier to see how God spoke to us. Listening to God is something I don't do very well, unless I slam hard into a wall and cry out for mercy. But as I think over the last months, I marvel at His communication with us. Who am I to have Him spend so much time talking to me? To Brian? Oh, yeah, we're His children.
That afternoon, I sat next to him, holding his hands, and said, "I think we need to stop chemo. Let's work on regaining your strength and live chemo free for however long God has you on this earth." I know neither one of us knew what was going to happen, but we both knew that was the right decision. And then, with a lump in my throat and confidence that was not my own, I said, "And I think we should plan your service. And if we don't need it for 40 years, then so be it." I can still see his sweet eyes looking at me through his glasses, and I know there was great relief.
Again, friends arrived that evening, a bit more somber than the previous night. I found myself in the kitchen with our friend Kelly, who cried with me because she knew. She just knew and she knew the right words to say.
As we all sat around, somewhat dumbfounded that we would be doing this, we began to address the issue of a service. I clumsily introduced what we were going to do and then looked to Brian, who, without hesitation, said "Death is ended." This James Ward song said it all. I'm sure in Brian's imagination, he saw a huge gospel choir of friends, filling the sanctuary. I'm not sure we qualified as huge in number, but we were gigantic in heart. With something so serious and so scary, the evening felt just right. All the right hymns, all the right people, all the right verses. It felt good and pleasing to God.
There is a Sunday and Monday...for the next post.
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Dave